East and West: Poems Part 6

By a computation that still holds good, Made by the Holy Brotherhood, The "San Gregorio" will cross that line In nineteen hundred and thirty-nine: Just three hundred years to a day From the time she lost the ninth of May.

And the folk in Acapulco town, Over the waters, looking down, Will see in the glow of the setting sun The sails of the missing galleon, And the royal standard of Philip _Rey_; The gleaming mast and glistening spar, As she nears the surf of the outer bar.

A _Te Deum_ sung on her crowded deck, An odor of spice along the sh.o.r.e, A crash, a cry from a shattered wreck,-- And the yearly galleon sails no more, In or out of the olden bay; For the blessed patron has found his day.

Such is the legend. Hear this truth: Over the trackless past, somewhere, Lie the lost days of our tropic youth, Only regained by faith and prayer, Only recalled by prayer and plaint: Each lost day has its patron saint!

A Second Review of the Grand Army.

I read last night of the Grand Review In Washington's chiefest avenue,-- Two Hundred Thousand men in blue, I think they said was the number,-- Till I seemed to hear their trampling feet, The bugle blast and the drum's quick beat, The clatter of hoofs in the stony street, The cheers of people who came to greet, And the thousand details that to repeat Would only my verse enc.u.mber,-- Till I fell in a reverie, sad and sweet, And then to a fitful slumber.

When, lo! in a vision I seemed to stand In the lonely Capitol. On each hand Far stretched the portico, dim and grand Its columns ranged like a martial band Of sheeted spectres, whom some command Had called to a last reviewing.

And the streets of the city were white and bare; No footfall echoed across the square; But out of the misty midnight air I heard in the distance a trumpet blare, And the wandering night-winds seemed to bear The sound of a far tattooing.

Then I held my breath with fear and dread; For into the square, with a brazen tread, There rode a figure whose stately head O'erlooked the review that morning, That never bowed from its firm-set seat When the living column pa.s.sed its feet, Yet now rode steadily up the street To the phantom bugle's warning:

Till it reached the Capitol square, and wheeled, And there in the moonlight stood revealed A well-known form that in State and field Had led our patriot sires; Whose face was turned to the sleeping camp, Afar through the river's fog and damp, That showed no flicker, nor waning lamp, Nor wasted bivouac fires.

And I saw a phantom army come, With never a sound of fife or drum, But keeping time to a throbbing hum Of wailing and lamentation: The martyred heroes of Malvern Hill, Of Gettysburg and Chancellorsville, The men whose wasted figures fill The patriot graves of the nation.

And there came the nameless dead,--the men Who perished in fever swamp and fen, The slowly-starved of the prison-pen; And, marching beside the others, Came the dusky martyrs of Pillow's fight, With limbs enfranchised and bearing bright; I thought--perhaps 'twas the pale moonlight-- They looked as white as their brothers!

And so all night marched the Nation's dead With never a banner above them spread, Nor a badge, nor a motto brandished; No mark--save the bare uncovered head Of the silent bronze Reviewer; With never an arch save the vaulted sky; With never a flower save those that lie On the distant graves--for love could buy No gift that was purer or truer.

So all night long swept the strange array, So all night long till the morning gray I watched for one who had pa.s.sed away, With a reverent awe and wonder,-- Till a blue cap waved in the lengthening line, And I knew that one who was kin of mine Had come; and I spake--and lo! that sign Awakened me from my slumber.

Part II.

Before the Curtain.

Behind the footlights hangs the rusty baize, A trifle shabby in the upturned blaze Of flaring gas, and curious eyes that gaze.

The stage, methinks, perhaps is none too wide, And hardly fit for royal Richard's stride, Or Falstaff's bulk, or Denmark's youthful pride.

Ah, well! no pa.s.sion walks its humble boards; O'er it no king nor valiant Hector lords: The simplest skill is all its s.p.a.ce affords.

The song and jest, the dance and trifling play, The local hit at follies of the day, The trick to pa.s.s an idle hour away,--

For these, no trumpets that announce the Moor, No blast that makes the hero's welcome sure,-- A single fiddle in the overture!

The Stage-Driver's Story.

It was the stage-driver's story, as he stood with his back to the wheelers, Quietly flecking his whip, and turning his quid of tobacco; While on the dusty road, and blent with the rays of the moonlight, We saw the long curl of his lash and the juice of tobacco descending.

"Danger! Sir, I believe you,--indeed, I may say on that subject, You your existence might put to the hazard and turn of a wager.

I have seen danger? Oh, no! not me, sir, indeed, I a.s.sure you: 'Twas only the man with the dog that is sitting alone in yon wagon.

It was the Geiger Grade, a mile and a half from the summit: Black as your hat was the night, and never a star in the heavens.

Thundering down the grade, the gravel and stones we sent flying Over the precipice side,--a thousand feet plumb to the bottom.

Half-way down the grade I felt, sir, a thrilling and creaking, Then a lurch to one side, as we hung on the bank of the canon; Then, looking up the road, I saw, in the distance behind me, The off hind wheel of the coach just loosed from its axle, and following.

One glance alone I gave, then gathered together my ribbons, Shouted, and flung them, outspread, on the straining necks of my cattle; Screamed at the top of my voice, and lashed the air in my frenzy, While down the Geiger Grade, on _three_ wheels, the vehicle thundered.

Speed was our only chance, when again came the ominous rattle: Crack, and another wheel slipped away, and was lost in the darkness.

_Two_ only now were left; yet such was our fearful momentum, Upright, erect, and sustained on _two_ wheels, the vehicle thundered.

As some huge boulder, unloosed from its rocky shelf on the mountain, Drives before it the hare and the timorous squirrel, far-leaping, So down the Geiger Grade rushed the Pioneer coach, and before it Leaped the wild horses, and shrieked in advance of the danger impending.

But to be brief in my tale. Again, ere we came to the level, Slipped from its axle a wheel; so that, to be plain in my statement, A matter of twelve hundred yards or more, as the distance may be, We travelled upon _one_ wheel, until we drove up to the station.

Then, sir, we sank in a heap; but, picking myself from the ruins, I heard a noise up the grade; and looking, I saw in the distance The three wheels following still, like moons on the horizon whirling, Till, circling, they gracefully sank on the road at the side of the station.

This is my story, sir; a trifle, indeed, I a.s.sure you.

Much more, perchance, might be said; but I hold him, of all men, most lightly Who swerves from the truth in his tale--No, thank you--Well, since you _are_ pressing, Perhaps I don't care if I do: you may give me the same, Jim,--no sugar."

Aspiring Miss de Laine.

A Chemical Narrative.

Certain facts which serve to explain The physical charms of Miss Addie De Laine, Who, as the common reports obtain, Surpa.s.sed in complexion the lily and rose; With a very sweet mouth and a _retrousse_ nose; A figure like Hebe's, or that which revolves In a milliner's window, and partially solves That question which mentor and moralist pains, If grace may exist _minus_ feeling or brains.

Of course the young lady had beaux by the score, All that she wanted,--what girl could ask more?

Lovers that sighed, and lovers that swore, Lovers that danced, and lovers that played, Men of profession, of leisure, and trade; But one, who was destined to take the high part Of holding that mythical treasure, her heart,-- This lover--the wonder and envy of town-- Was a practising chemist,--a fellow called Brown.